“This affair,” returned my wife, “has not passed into town talk, and will, I trust, be kept sacred by those who know the facts.  I learned them from Mrs. Dean, the sister of Mrs. Floyd.  The case stands thus:  Henry is peculiar, shy, reserved, and rather silent.  He goes but little into company, and has not the taking way with girls that renders some young men so popular.  But his qualities are all of the sterling kind—­such as wear well, and grow brighter with usage.  For more than a year past, he has shown a decided preference for Delia Floyd, and she has encouraged his attentions.  Indeed, so far as I can learn from Mrs. Dean, the heart of her niece was deeply interested.  But a lover of higher pretensions came, dazzling her mind with a more brilliant future.”

“Who?” I inquired.

“That dashing young fellow from New York, Judge Bigelow’s nephew.”

“Not Ralph Dewey?”

“Yes.”

“Foolish girl, to throw away a man for such an effigy!  It will be a dark day that sees her wedded to him.  But I will not believe in the possibility of such an event.”

“Well, to go on with my story,” resumed Constance.  “Last evening, seeing, I suppose, that a dangerous rival was intruding, Henry made suit for the hand of Delia, and was rejected.”

“I understand the case better now,” said I, speaking from a professional point of view.

“Poor young man!  I did not suppose it was in him to love any woman after that fashion,” remarked Constance.

“Your men of reserved exterior have often great depths of feeling,” I remarked.  “Usually women are not drawn towards them; because they are attracted most readily by what meets the eye.  If they would look deeper, they would commit fewer mistakes, like that which Delia Floyd has just committed.”

CHAPTER VI.

Delia Floyd was a girl of more than ordinary attractions, and it is not surprising that young Wallingford was drawn, fascinated, within the charmed circle of her influence.  She was, by no means, the weak, vain, beautiful young woman, that the brief allusion I have made to her might naturally lead the reader to infer.  I had possessed good opportunities for observing her, for our families were intimate, and she was frequently at our house.  Her father had given her a good education—­not showy; but of the solid kind.  She was fond of books, and better read, I think, in the literature of the day, than any other young lady in S——.  Her conversational powers were of a high order.  Good sense, I had always given her credit for possessing; and I believed her capable of reading character correctly.  She was the last one I should have regarded as being in danger of losing a heart to Ralph Dewey.

In person, Delia was rather below than above the middle stature.  Her hair was of a dark brown, and so were her eyes—­the latter large and liquid.  Her complexion was fresh, almost ruddy, and her countenance animated, and quick to register every play of feeling.